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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958044">Yellow like the Sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormmunist/pseuds/wormmunist'>wormmunist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>HLVRAI - Fandom, Half-Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Trans Gordon Freeman, lots of homoerotic staring and internal dialogue, though its only briefly mentioned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:34:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormmunist/pseuds/wormmunist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the birthday party at the end of the world, Gordon stays with Tommy for a while to recover.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tommy Coolatta/Gordon Freeman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>215</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Yellow like the Sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know Sunkist is canonically a boy. I made her a girl because I do what I want. I'm following Wayne's hilarious semi-canon idea that Gordon had a stock photo in that picture frame, so if you're worried about Joshua, don't be! He doesn't exist.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a hell of a day. Gordon isn’t processing any of it currently; he’s been halfway between floating away from his body and itching out of his skin the whole time he was sitting down on the ratty old chairs and shoving cold misshapen Chuck E Cheese pizza slices into his mouth. The party’s over, though. It was around sundown when Mr. Coolatta checked his watch and declared it was “time to get going.” It’s dusk now. The purple haze of New Mexico’s desert sky paints a pale and starless picture, no clouds in sight, the moon barely a sliver in the void. The parking lot of the restaurant is decrepit and empty, aside from one light yellow flatbed truck that looks remarkably well-maintained and shiny when compared to the crumbling asphalt and flickering street lamps.</p><p>Gordon is standing on the curb of an abandoned Chuck E Cheese parking lot, looking up at the desolate sky, and now that he thinks about it, trying very hard not to cry. He falls down more than sits on the sidewalk. The HEV suit is heavy, but after three days of wearing it and fighting for his life, he barely feels it. Its bulky chestplate and collar sink into him, weighing him down. He feels like shit. Must smell like it, too.</p><p>There’s footsteps behind him. He recognizes the soft gait almost immediately as Tommy’s without needing to turn around. Walking around a facility for seventy-two hours with someone will do that. Being saved by that same someone after your hand gets cut off by your friends will also do that. Tommy sits down next to him, a respectable distance away, but not too far that Gordon can’t reach him. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do. Gordon’s still looking at the sky. After all that’s happened, after all he’s screamed and yelled and panicked, he’s quiet now, after the birthday party at the end of the world. He can’t summon up the energy to say or do anything. What’s the point? Tommy knows. Tommy understands what his silence means.</p><p>“Are you going home, Gordon?” He hears from his side. Tommy sort of dropped the whole ‘Mr. Freeman’ bit after they got out of Black Mesa. It was probably the running joke of ‘workplace professionalism’ that he ragged on, OSHA compliant vats of radioactive green fluid and all. Gordon brings himself back to his body, feeling awfully disconnected, mouth dry, until he hears Tommy jingle something in his pocket.</p><p>“I-I can give you a ride.” It’s his keys. The keyring has a few colorful charms on it, which is really cute, but Gordon definitely didn’t just think that. He wonders how on Earth Tommy kept those keys through Black Mesa.</p><p>“Gordon?” The back of Tommy’s hand brushes against his cheek. He jolts at the contact, reeling at it before relaxing into it and closing his eyes. Tommy has very thin hands. They’re almost chilly as he tucks a strand of hair behind Gordon’s ear and cups his jaw. He blushes despite the exhaustion, smushing his face down into the touch, and reaches his gloved hand up to ghost over Tommy’s wrist.</p><p>“Can you take me home?” He asks quietly as he looks up through his lashes, sounding tinny and distant even to himself. Tommy has an expression on his face that’s somewhere between concerned guilt and the warmest thing he’s ever seen directed towards him. It makes his stomach flip. They shamble to the yellow pickup truck, Gordon leaning on Tommy, and the thrum of the engine hums a song Gordon’s almost forgotten by now - relaxation. His muscles go limp in the tan leather seat. The car rumbles out of the parking lot and he’s already asleep.</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>“W-we’re home, Gordon.” Tommy’s shaking his shoulder. He blinks awake groggily, head fuzzy, drooling a little bit from the corner of his mouth, and sees an unfamiliar building from outside the windshield. It’s midnight, but the headlights from the truck and the twin lights outside the house’s door paint the surroundings in a warm shade of yellow. It’s a sun-bleached ranch-style house with a front porch and a few steps leading up to it, framed by red rock and scraggly dry plants.<br/>
“Whuh, uh, this isn’t my apartment?” He stutters, sitting up straight. Tommy turns the car off and hums.</p><p>“Yeah, I need to feed Sunkist.” He explains. Gordon barks out a tired laugh. Of course Tommy would get home from the apocalypse and immediately think of his dog. They get out of the truck and Tommy unlocks his front door easily, welcoming Gordon inside wordlessly as he flicks on the lights and gleefully pushes Sunkist down from her jumping. Gordon stands on the welcome mat as Tommy trails after his dog’s excited prancing. Distantly, he hears the pouring of kibble and a collar rattling. He doesn’t react; he’s too busy taking in the house that’s bursting at the seams with color.</p><p>Every inch of the house is comfortable. There’s memories wherever he looks. The floor in the entryway is white tile and leads into a connected living room and kitchen where Tommy now kneels, ruffling Sunkist’s golden fur. The walls are all a lovely shade of pale yellow or cream, bookshelves overflowing with tchotchkes and little items that look to be from all over the world. The hallway is lined with framed black and white photographs of him and his father. He has a window over the kitchen sink with a lace curtain that’s been sloppily embroidered with the outline of a dog bone.</p><p>He’s got one of those kitchens that Gordon sees online and dreams about; a marble island and a breakfast table with four wooden chairs and a doily in the middle. There’s a light fixture hanging from the ceiling that holds a knitted pearl cactus, overflowing and brushing Tommy’s hair as he plods around the kitchen. This house is so Tommy it hurts. It hits Gordon with a strong wave of a kind of warmth that he’s not sure how to categorize - belonging, comfort, hope, life. His shitty apartment in Albuquerque has nothing on this.</p><p>“Um, a-are you a fan of my, my interior design?” Tommy asks, suddenly in front of him and holding out a mason jar of water. Gordon takes it with both hands, shaking just slightly, and downs it in a single gulp. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.</p><p>“You’ve got a beautiful place here, man. It’s… it’s wonderful.” He mumbles, still holding the glass. Tommy beams and his smile is so perfect and lovely that Gordon’s knees wobble a little. Through the thick glove of the HEV suit, he feels Sunkist nuzzle up into his palm.</p><p>“Th-this is my childhood home, technically my dad’s house.” He explains, scratching between the dog’s ears. “I haven’t been here in years. I only knew Sunkist was here because of our telepathic link.”</p><p>“You have a telepathic link with your dog?”</p><p>“Technically she has a telepathic link with me but I, uh, won’t get into semantics.” Gordon just nods. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sunkist could sprout wings and fly. He rolls his shoulders back painfully, the suit creaking and pulling him down. He tries to pry one of the gloves off, but it doesn’t budge, attached from the inside. It was starting to feel a lot more claustrophobic in the damn thing.</p><p>“Hey man, I hate to like, insist, but I really need a shower, I feel like hot shit.” It wasn’t a lie. His hair was matted with blood and sewage water, probably soaked many times over in sweat at this point, and he was wearing two layers of clothing underneath the armor. Tommy nods quickly and shoves his shoes off onto the entryway rug, making Gordon feel a little guilty about tracking the big heavy HEV boots through the clean house. He follows him down a hallway lined with more old photographs, some looking older than the house itself.</p><p>“The water’s still on, so that’s good. I’m, uh, I’m glad my dad is keeping the house alive even if he’s never here.” Tommy says as he opens the bathroom door and grabs a few towels from the wooden cabinet under the sink. Gordon stands awkwardly in the doorway, balling his fists.</p><p>“D-do you need anything else?” He asks, tilting his head in an endearing way. Gordon bares his teeth, hating this feeling of reliance and intrusion.</p><p>“I, um, I can’t get the HEV suit off by myself,” he stutters, looking at the floor and trying not to blush, “so if you could help me with that. I would. Appreciate it.” Tommy brightens, showing his palms.</p><p>“Oh! Of course! Sorry I forgot. I guess I never thought about it.” He explains, going to clear the vanity of soap and towels before patting the counter innocently, staring at him. Gordon’s mouth goes dry as he realizes the meaning and shuffles over, hoisting himself up to sit eye level with Tommy. He looks away. Tommy giggles and Gordon curses himself for being so timid in the one area of his life that he should be bold in. Tommy reaches his arms around Gordon’s torso and grabs the latches on the back plate, scrabbling to find them at first but then easily tugging them forward, successfully loosening the chestplate.</p><p>Gordon struggles not to lurch forward into Tommy and sits patiently, trying to ignore how close they are. He keeps working around his chest and hips in the same pattern, undoing the vertical locks that hold the chestplate so tightly. Gordon balls his fists and looks at the ceiling, desperately trying not to think about Tommy’s hair brushing against his chin or how soft his cheeks look. He doesn’t think about his hands, how gentle they would be on his face or how long he could hold them. He definitely doesn’t think about wrapping his legs around Tommy’s waist and kissing him.</p><p>After a few minutes, the chestplate gives a loud and final crack and splits straight in half, leaving Gordon with just the arms and legs of the suit. Tommy puts the heavy plates in the hallway as Gordon takes a few deep breaths, free of the majority of the weight. He picks at the collar of the navy jumpsuit with disgust. It’s nearly crusted into place, stiff with sweat and dirt and blood. He knows the crisp lab attire underneath is probably stained to high hell with the same kind of schmutz.</p><p>“Okay, I’ll do your arms next.” Tommy’s back, a little bit of a sheen above his brow. This goes on for the rest of the suit, taking a good twenty minutes, but Gordon’s never felt better. He leans back on the vanity, stretching his neck from side to side, and notices Tommy staring.</p><p>“What are you lookin’ at?” He pokes him with his foot, which is now boot-free.</p><p>“You’re just, um… a lot smaller without it. It’s surprising.”</p><p>“I’m not small!” Gordon huffs, leaning forward and crossing his arms.</p><p>“No, no!” Tommy waves his arms defensively. “We spent all that time together that I sort of thought of you as being the same size as the suit, and now that it’s off, uh... I mean that you’re just, you’re cute. That’s what I meant.” He manages to sputter out, flapping his hands. Gordon’s mouth hangs open in silence as Tommy turns abruptly to put the water on and hurries out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Gordon clambers into the shower and pushes that interaction to the back of his mind. He focuses instead on detangling his hair, slowly and painfully tugging all the clumps of dried blood and gore out of it, scrubbing himself clean of a few year’s worth of dirt. The sullied water goes down the drain in a spiral of black, red, and brown.</p><p>He’s finally clean, after half an hour soaking in nearly boiling water. Gordon steps out of the shower and towels himself down, pinning his prosthetic back into place and drying his hair as well as possible with an already damp towel. He wipes at the foggy mirror with his hand. He’s looked better. There are deep purple bags under his eyes and the skin of his eyelids looks thin, tired. His wet hair sticks to his forehead. Those new scars on his arm aren’t going away anytime soon. Thankfully, Tommy’s father was able to close all of them up when he gave him his prosthetic, allowing Gordon to skip an awkward trip to the emergency room. It’s almost strange to him that he only has one scar from this whole situation, even if it is as big as losing his hand. It seemed worse. Longer. He shakes his head as the mirror begins to drip and fog back up, obscuring his face.</p><p>Looking around, there aren’t any clothes in the bathroom other than his own filthy work clothes, and there’s no way he’s putting those back on. He wraps a towel around his waist and braces himself for the cold air of the hallway, poking around into the living room and the kitchen. Tommy’s nowhere to be seen.<br/>
“Tommy?” He calls out, feeling more than a little embarrassed.</p><p>“Yeah?” A distant reply comes from back down the hallway. Gordon opens the door he heard it from and there lies Tommy, almost entirely obscured by a large fluffy white comforter in a bed in the middle of the room. It must be the master bedroom - there are windows paneling the adjacent walls and heavy curtains framing them, an oil painting hanging above the large ornate wooden headboard of the bed. The painting is made of abstract strokes of orange and yellow. Tommy pokes his head out of the blankets again.</p><p>“Yeah?” He repeats, blinking expectantly. His cheeks are flushed just a tinge darker, to which Gordon grips his towel a little tighter, hiding behind the door.</p><p>“Can I borrow some clothes? I don’t have any.” He asks, leaning his forehead against the door and swaying with it. Tommy stutters out an apology and untangles himself from the bed, hurrying over to the wooden dresser and pulling out a large shirt and pajama shorts from the bottom drawer.</p><p>“This is all that’s left from when I lived here. They might not fit.” He mutters as he walks over to Gordon, handing him the clothes from the crack in the door. There’s a brief contact between their hands which Gordon likes more than he wants to admit. He thanks him and goes back to the bathroom, inspecting the clothes on his way. The pants are bright orange with white stripes on the side and honestly a little shorter than what he’d prefer, but it’s not exactly like he has any other option. At least they fit. The shirt is fine, though, just an old blue thing with a faded logo and the tag cut out. He glances to the mirror and giggles. It looks like he’s not wearing pants. He hangs the towel up on a hook attached to the back of the door and stands awkwardly in the hallway for a second, unsure of what to do, before hearing Tommy’s footsteps next to him.</p><p>“Hey, they fit.” Gordon says, presenting himself with his hands outstretched. Tommy is smiling, obviously more than a little sleepy, and he laughs while rubbing his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, y-you look really cute, Gordon.” He mumbles. Gordon blinks in surprise, but before he can respond, Tommy speaks again.</p><p>“You can sleep in the bed with me if you want to. Or the couch. But, um,” he hesitates, grabbing the back of his neck and looking away, “It does get cold sometimes.” Gordon opens his mouth to respond but is silent for a few seconds. He’ll take the couch.</p><p>“I can sleep with you.” That’s not what he meant to say, but Tommy brightens, nodding. He turns and leaves the door open for Gordon, who’s standing still in the hallway, somewhat paralyzed. Tommy wanted to sleep with him. It’s been so long since he’s had feelings for someone; he’s not used to the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He follows him into the dark bedroom with his hands outstretched, feeling Tommy’s hand wrap gently around his wrist and tug him forward into the bed. It’s very big and very soft, and Gordon hasn’t slept in an actual bed in a week, so it feels like a cloud. He takes off his prosthetic in a daze and drops it onto the ground, too tired to feel around for a bedside table. He can feel Tommy wriggling around to his right and he shuffles over, inhibitions forgotten from the sunny warmth blossoming in his chest.</p><p>Tommy rolls over as Gordon gets closer, meeting him in the middle of the mattress. It’s very warm. Gordon is the most relaxed he’s possibly ever been. He leans into Tommy, looking up at the dark ceiling, breathing slow and calm. Tommy curls a hand around his left arm and strokes his skin ever so softly, sending little goosebumps down his neck. Sleep comes easy and takes him under its care. He has no nightmares; a welcome change.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The sun creeping in through half open blinds is what wakes Gordon up. He throws his smaller arm over his eyes, grumbling and rolling back into the pillow beneath him. The pillow cards through his hair. That’s not a pillow. That’s Tommy. He freezes up as Tommy continues to sleepily brush through his hair, his chest rising and falling in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. Gordon relaxes slowly. He hasn’t been touched like this in years. He didn’t know he missed it this much, but when Tommy’s fingernails scratch against his scalp, he leans into it, making a little sound of comfort in his throat. He feels so small on Tommy’s chest, in this huge bed, in a cozy New Mexico house in the middle of the desert. At this moment, nothing in the world except Tommy matters.</p><p>Sunkist nudges the door open with her snout and wags her tail impatiently, panting with a wide toothy smile, pawing at Tommy’s arm. He sighs heavily and sits up, stretching, and Gordon thinks he could stare at his back all day. Tommy casts a look over his shoulder and smiles tiredly at him, reaching for his hand. Gordon takes it and they wake up together, soaking in the golden desert sunlight. Tommy leaves the room to feed Sunkist, wobbling slightly, and Gordon follows, but stands in the hallway, caught by the framed photos of him and his father.</p><p>Gordon knows Tommy isn’t human. It became apparent to him when they were alone together in Black Mesa. The way his eyes glow, the way he just doesn’t react to injuries, and the uncanny reflexes he has was enough to convince Gordon of that fact, not to mention his father. He knows Tommy is adopted, but something supernatural has to be going on between the two of them regardless of genetics. These photographs of him and his father are ancient. Black and white, printed on sheets of tin, scratched to all hell, they’ve got to be at least a hundred years old. They seem to be in chronological order from the master bedroom down to the end of the hallway as Tommy ages through them. They show blurry images of the man and his father in various landscapes, a farmhouse, a shipyard, a few locations he can’t identify, and finally, at the end of the hallway, Black Mesa. The newer photographs are in color, where Tommy looks a few years younger than he is now.</p><p>“Are you looking at my dad and I?” Tommy pipes up from behind him. He jumps at the sudden noise, Tommy blinking curiously at him. Gordon smooths himself back down.</p><p>“Yeah, I… How old are these pictures?” He asks, pointing at one particular photo of his father in front of an elaborate building covered in snow. The man in question looks the same as ever in his black suit and briefcase, but the people in the background are wearing heavy cloaks and furred hats.</p><p>“Th-that one is from the 1890s. That’s the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. He visits it every few decades, I think it’s the architecture that he likes.” Tommy speculates, leaning in closer to the photograph and squinting. Gordon lets out of breath of wonder.</p><p>“How old is your dad?”</p><p>“Oh, centuries? Or maybe a millennia? I-I don’t really know.” He shrugs. Gordon looks closer at Tommy’s face in the photograph next to it. He’s a child in this one, wearing a long raincoat and coming up to his father’s hip. His hand is on Tommy’s head. The background is a large battleship, likely military owned judging by the look of it. From the celebration around it, it was probably just launched. The name is hard to make out.</p><p>“That’s the Queen Mary, a few months after my dad adopted me. That was 1934, I think.” Tommy explains, smiling fondly, brushing a thin layer of dust off of the picture frame. Gordon feels his mouth go a little drier.</p><p>“How old are you, Tommy?” He asks lightly, turning his head to look at him. Tommy looks back.</p><p>“I’m thirty-seven. My birthday was yesterday, Gordon.” He answers, a little offended, and Gordon tilts his head and points at the photograph.</p><p>“But like, how old are you, really?” Tommy doesn’t answer for a few moments.</p><p>“I’m thirty-seven.” He insists, shaking his head. Gordon purses his lips. He’ll try to reword one more time, but if Tommy doesn’t want to answer, he won’t force him.</p><p>“Okay, If you’re thirty-seven, how did you get a photograph of yourself in 1934?”</p><p>“Um, my dad took me to a lot of times and places when I was a kid. It was fun.” He says, as if it should have been obvious. Gordon sighs in relief, putting the pieces together in his head. Mr. Coolatta has time travel abilities; this is only enforced by the time freezing he used to talk to Gordon in Black Mesa. He can travel backwards in time and has the ability to take people with him, or maybe Tommy can time travel, too. That still doesn’t explain how or why Tommy has his abilities, but Gordon’s willing to brush that under the rug for this small bit of information.</p><p>“Let’s get dressed. W-we need to head into town for food.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>These clothes don’t exactly fit Gordon, but something is better than nothing. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatshorts from Tommy’s pajama drawer and a cropped Hawaiian shirt. Tommy’s wearing overalls, a yellow t-shirt, and a straw sunhat. He looks very cute, but Gordon once again pushes that thought down. They’re shopping for the basics; eggs, milk, cereal. In the car, Tommy and Gordon planned to spend the next few days at the house to rest and then figure out what to do at their own apartments. Gordon isn’t going to lie to himself - he’d rather stay with Tommy for the next few weeks or months, but he’s determined to not make things more awkward than they need to be. Even though they’d technically only met a week ago, Gordon feels like he’s known Tommy for years. The prospect of being alone again seems so strange to him.</p><p>“Do you want those hot pockets? Y-you’re staring at them.” Tommy’s voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He backs away from the cooler into Tommy’s shoulder, who simply hums and pats him on the back as he returns to the shopping cart full of frozen dinners. Gordon pushes the cart while Tommy checks off items on the list, whizzing around the empty aisles of the K-Mart, avoiding other customers like the plague. It’s around noon on a Wednesday, so there aren’t many people anyways, but Gordon has a pit of anxiety in his gut like he’s just ducked behind low cover and is reloading his gun. Tommy seems to share his dread, not making any conversation and heading directly to what they jotted down in the car. Gordon wonders how long this feeling will last.</p><p>They check out of the supermarket. Tommy pays, of course, and Gordon tries to bury the guilt of making someone else pay for his food. He left his wallet, his phone, and his mind in the locker back in Black Mesa. They were probably destroyed by now. He would have to get his driver’s license renewed at some point, cancel his credit cards, reach out to his landlord about rent and his current unemployment and… God, it’s too much. Just too much.</p><p>Tommy pushes the cart back to the car. It’s hot outside. The asphalt beneath them is cracked and faded, little plants pushing their way through the pavement. There aren’t many cars on the road or in the shopping center, and Gordon has the strangest feeling that the world ended a week ago and they’re all pretending it didn’t. He numbly helps him put the groceries back in the car and sits in the passenger seat while Tommy puts the cart back. He gets back into the car and turns it on, blasting the AC and just sitting there for a moment. Gordon looks over at him.</p><p>His eyes are closed, head back, sweat gathered in beads on his forehead and in his coarse black hair. He takes his sunhat off and puts it on the dash, opening his eyes to stare out the windshield. He’s got a lovely profile of soft sloping lines and Gordon can’t help himself from staring at his round cheeks, pocked with scars, shining and beautiful. Tommy looks back at him and he looks away quickly, heat rising to his face. He hears a soft sigh and Tommy puts his hand on Gordon’s. He feels the butterflies in his stomach bang against his ribcage and looks at Tommy again, who’s still staring out the windshield.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Tommy asks, quieter than usual. Gordon, whip lashed between emotions, blinks in a moment of processing.</p><p>“No. Are you?” He answers finally.</p><p>“No.” Tommy admits, looking down. “I don’t want to think about… m-my dad.” That gives Gordon another second of confusion before Tommy explains.<br/>
“Why did he give you your hand at the last second possible? Couldn’t he have done that when you were bleeding out? C-could he have just stopped that entirely? Why did he wait to help you? Why’d he yank us around like a, uh, a lawn decoration in a hurricane?” He spills, tightening his grip on Gordon’s hand like a lifeline while his brows furrow and he squints down at his shoes. Gordon says nothing, unsure of what to say to comfort him. He doesn’t know the answers to any of those questions either. Mr. Coolatta is an enigma to everyone, apparently.</p><p>“And why is this house still here?” Tommy mumbles, sort of an afterthought, but Gordon catches it.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Tommy looks at him, sighing heavily and bringing his face into his hand in aggravation.</p><p>“Why’s the water still running? And the electricity and the plumbing? I haven’t lived there in a decade, I thought it would’ve been gone by now. It just, it doesn’t make any sense, unless my dad knew we were going there, and he shouldn’t have known that.” He mutters, taking his hand away from Gordon’s to start pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. Gordon kicks his questions around in his head. Mr. Coolatta has to be a god or something, there’s no other explanation.</p><p>The drive back to the house is longer than Gordon would’ve expected. He wasn’t paying attention when they ran into town, busy making a grocery list, but now he has time to look at the landscape of New Mexico and document the landmarks in his head. There’s a lot of dry trees, red rocks and flat top mesas, mountains looming like clouds so high in the distance. He’s always loved the desert, especially its wildlife. He would’ve gone into biology if it paid half as well as physics, but government jobs don’t pay nearly enough for top surgery or hormones. Black Mesa was willing to pay for everything, and to a young Gordon fresh out of an internship, that was irresistible despite the organization’s shady conduct and experiments. If only he’d been a little more patient, maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess. But then again, he wouldn’t have met Tommy.</p><p>Tommy’s easily the best part of all of this.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>They’re eating their frozen dinners on the couch together, watching some B-rated movie on the fisheye television for background noise, trying not to think about anything real. Tommy’s sitting just inches away and Gordon’s embarrassed at how desperate he is for human contact. He finished his microwave mac n cheese some while ago, setting the empty container on the coffee table, but Tommy’s still picking at his food, eyes set on the television screen. Gordon can tell he’s not really watching by the way he doesn’t follow the characters or read the subtitles, just staring ahead like he’s miles away from his body. He bumps his leg with his knee, garnering a surprised blink.</p><p>“You good?” Gordon tilts his head. Tommy nods slowly, putting his unfinished dinner on the table next to Gordon’s bowl and settling back into the couch cushions like it’s where he’s sat for centuries. He fiddles with the torn hem of his shirt, having long changed back into pajamas, obviously agitated. Gordon hesitantly puts a hand on his knee.</p><p>“It’s gonna be okay, man. I’m here if you need me.” The lines he’s said to so many people before have a new kind of meaning as he says them to Tommy. There’s been this feeling of guilt lying in his throat all day - how often has Tommy’s been there for him? Has he ever been there for Tommy? He can’t even trust his dad to play it straight with him. He’s such a good man. He deserves someone to lean on.</p><p>Now Tommy’s looking at him with those endless glowing eyes and something deeper that makes Gordon’s stomach flutter. The simple warmth of Tommy’s skin under his hand, soft and yielding, sends his head into a hazy mess of thoughts that he doesn’t have the strength to explain. He’s mapping out all the corners and lines of Tommy’s brow line and jaw when Tommy reaches out and puts a hand on his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, and Gordon nearly melts into the touch. He’s so warm and so real and so soft and Gordon doesn’t want to think about anything else ever again, just Tommy and only Tommy. Forget the world. It’s not for us.</p><p>This isn’t their first kiss. He remembers, oh so distantly, bleeding out on the cold floor of Black Mesa with Tommy by his side, frantically wrapping his arm in salvaged bandages made from dirty lab coats. He remembers the panic in Tommy’s voice, so uncharacteristic of him, and he remembers prying Tommy’s hands away from the HEV suit just to hold them. He was crying, they both were, and he remembers cupping Tommy’s face in his remaining hand and giving him a very gentle kiss. Something to remember him by, if Gordon died down there. It was sad, it was dying, and it was fueled by wistful what ifs and futures that neither of them could imagine at the time.</p><p>Now, pressing their lips together in a warm yellow house, away from Black Mesa, away from harm, away from the world and the guns and the danger, Gordon feels safer than he’s felt in lifetimes. Tommy’s hand moves to the back of his neck and tangles in the hair there, nestled at the base, and Gordon shifts for a better angle, knocking their legs together awkwardly. Tommy pulls back and gently takes his glasses off his face, folding them and setting them on the couch cushion while Gordon breathes, vision swimming and ears burning. They come back together and it’s electric, his blood is singing, it feels like fireworks are going off in his head. Tommy’s so soft. His skin is like velvet and Gordon’s hand is under his shirt now, on the small of his back. His clothes smell like cedar and hazelnuts. Gordon buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s shoulder, breathing deeply, blushing deeper, and Tommy leans back on the couch with him. He feels so small, so vulnerable, and the best feeling is knowing that this is okay, that he trusts Tommy to see him like this. Caring, quiet, calm. Tommy combs through his tangled hair with gentle patience.</p><p>“I’d like to brush your hair sometime, Gordon.” He mumbles, and Gordon sighs a tiny laugh into his shoulder. He wouldn’t mind that at all.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Gordon loses track of the days they spend in the house, outside watching the clouds drift by, tending to the overgrown bushes outside, taking Sunkist out to run and eating their microwaved dinners on the couch together. They don’t talk about the Resonance Cascade. Neither of them are ready for that yet. But they both know it happened, and they can both tell when the other is thinking about it by the fog that comes over their eyes and the stiffness of their movements. Though the house is safe and warm, even its reach cannot protect against the past.</p><p>Tommy’s spent a lot of time finding things from his childhood in the depths of the house. Under the beds, in the attic, in cupboards and closets, Gordon’s walked in on him holding items with a fond smile on his face and a spark in his eyes. Tonight he found a portable record player from the sixties, its boxy frame covered in dust, but the inside lined with red velvet. His father would set it up for him on nights he was home and Tommy would fall asleep to the crackle of the music, but always wake up in bed.</p><p>“Ah! Tommy, I found the vinyls.” Gordon calls, wiggling out from underneath the bed they’ve been sleeping in. He’s a little sweaty, but it was worth it to find this stack of heavy black discs, all dusty and bound together with a few strands of twine. He hears a delighted shout from the next room over. Tommy shortly comes into the room and sits next to him, excitedly taking the stacks from him with surprising strength and spreading the records out on the floor to read the faded labels in the center of them.</p><p>“Oh, I think this is the one my dad liked to play.” He points at a once-white record, now yellow from age, with the American flag printed over the top of it. Gordon quirks an eyebrow.</p><p>“I never read your dad as a patriot.” He remarks.</p><p>“He’s not, neither am I, the song’s just nice.” Tommy explains, picking up the disc and standing. He helps Gordon up and they head to the living room, Tommy twirling the record around in his hands and setting it on the player, adjusting the needle before a crackling melody is produced from the old thing. It reminds him of something he’d hear in a movie. Tommy offers him a hand, eyes twinkling, and Gordon has to take it, if only to indulge in his happiness.</p><p>Gordon’s never been the best at dancing, and Tommy isn’t exactly well practiced either, so it’s a good thing that they don’t so much as waltz but sway back and forth while holding each other. Gordon tucks his head against Tommy’s chest and wraps one arm around his waist, hearing his heart thumping steadily through his shirt. They each have one arm extended out to hold each other’s hands, their grasps somehow dainty and firm at the same time. Tommy rests his hand on Gordon near the junction of his neck and shoulder. The music is soft enough that Gordon can’t make out much of the lyrics without straining his ears, but he can hear the singer talking about love and understanding. He blushes a little bit and nuzzles closer to Tommy. He’s so real and solid and here for him.</p><p>Tommy pulls back and tilts Gordon’s chin up with a gentle touch of the hand, head tilted in question, his brown face darkened with blush. He’s got those adorable dimples and Gordon can’t resist cupping his face in his hand. Tommy shuts his eyes and exhales into his palm, leaning into the touch, and Gordon thinks he feels his heart melting into honey under his ribcage. His skin is so soft. Gordon never wants to let go of this moment. He’s so precious like this, happy and safe despite his vulnerability, trusting him to see him like this. It’s then that Gordon thinks vulnerability might be an inseparable part of love; trust is built upon vulnerability, and love is built upon trust.</p><p>“What are you thinking about?” Tommy asks, and Gordon is too warm inside to think, mind swimming with lights and shapes and gut burning with affection.</p><p>“I love you,” he blurts, tightening his hand around Tommy’s. He’s not afraid to say it, but it tumbles out of his mouth unplanned, and Tommy blinks in surprise. Gordon’s always jumped into everything head-first, and he’s not about to break that streak, but the way his stomach is dropping through the floor right now isn’t exactly the best feeling.</p><p>“I love you too, Gordon.” Tommy murmurs back, looking off to the side, lips curled up in a shy smile. Gordon brings him down for a kiss, insistent and grabby, and they both laugh through it, stumbling over each other towards the couch. The record’s restarted, they’re lying on top of each other, Sunkist is licking Tommy’s hand, and the sun is bathing them in golden yellow light through the windows of the house.</p><p>Maybe it’s all going to be okay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Songs that inspired this fic: Hey Lover by Daughters of Eve (that’s the record they dance to) and Don’t Judge me by Janelle Monáe</p><p>Check me out on tumblr :) @wormmunist</p></blockquote></div></div>
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